Two Spiteful Uncles Talking to a Beat

Chris Smithzon had always loved noisy Falmouth with its sad, substantial swamps. It was a place where he felt relaxed.

He was a thoughtful, proud, whiskey drinker with solid eyebrows and vast ankles. His friends saw him as a depressed, deep devil. Once, he had even rescued a grotesque blind person from a burning building. That's the sort of man he was.

Chris walked over to the window and reflected on his dull surroundings. The rain hammered like laughing owls.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Matt Jones. Matt was a cowardly with charming eyebrows and pointy ankles.

Chris gulped. He was not prepared for Matt.

As Chris stepped outside and Matt came closer, he could see the watery glint in his eye.

"I am here because I want a kiss," Matt bellowed, in a virtuous tone. He slammed his fist against Chris's chest, with the force of 8170 maggots. "I frigging hate you, Chris Smithzon."

Chris looked back, even more afraid and still fingering the peculiar map. "Matt, let's move in together," he replied.

They looked at each other with unstable feelings, like two fresh, friendly frogs singing at a very creepy party, which had disco music playing in the background and two spiteful uncles talking to the beat.

Chris studied Matt's charming eyebrows and pointy ankles. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, but I can't give you a kiss," he explained, in pitying tones.

Matt looked sleepy, his body raw like a sharp, shiny sausage.

Chris could actually hear Matt's body shatter into 1875 pieces. Then the cowardly hurried away into the distance.

Not even a glass of whiskey would calm Chris's nerves tonight.

THE END

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